The leaves alone stir,
Delicate memoirs of hearts
Torn asunder and laid
Vicariously to rest.
That I were shrapnel
The perfect embodiment
Of a perfectly unjust hate
I might not stand here
On this precipice
Wondering if
My very practical life
Merits another day
To wield such a legacy
Would not satisfy
These grievances
I find solace only within
The hours of wan
There is no one in whom
I may confide
But in times such as these
The pen is itself a syringe
Perhaps I am the better
For this suffering
I have forged a heart
Of pulp and nectar
A heart of sympathetic leanings
Even in the midst of Gehenna
I am certain to remain sincere
The mistress exceeds me,
Her beauty is such that
Even the stars appear dirty
In the the halo of her smile
But she is only so
In the company of men
I know well her temperament
Her hedonistic excursions
Her cruelty as the riding crop
Is driven through every
Disintegrating layer
Of my intermittent pride
I have never treated her unfairly
For there is nothing in this
Mortal realm that I fear
Quite so much as finding
Myself unrecognizable
She may own every
Rotten inch of flesh
But of this soul she will
Never understand
And I may be beneath her
In every wordly respect
But in the eyes of God
We are both children
*
I was out all day again while there is still warmth to be had we’ll continue visiting the countryside. I forgot to bring my Wordle list and then I lost what I had written so I am surprised that I have managed anything today.
mindlovemisery 